Repose
by Jamocha101
Summary: In a rare moment of repose, Hound and Bumblebee have a meaningful conversation.


Memories of a "home" prior to war were mostly gone. Upon reflection, little clarity in the images of Cybertron's golden age remained. In the beginning, it had been excruciatingly easy—as time had gone on, as entropy increased, and as more companions died—as the nature of the war complicated and the environment disintegrated—war became increasingly normal. The cultural mores of peacetime were slowly but surely replaced by the ingratiation of fight-or-die. For the younger soldiers, this had always been the case. But for the older veterans, the transition played out in stunningly sequenced intervals, like a long, episodic film strip.

Hound took a puff on his cigar, trying to use the sight of Earth's sunset to take his mind off all this. Ordinarily, these sorts of contemplations were habitually repressed, mainly because they were distracting and useless. But in rare moments of quiet, it was much more difficult to avoid them.

A few light, methodical footsteps momentarily redirected his train of thought. Even before looking behind him, he could tell by the deliberate, stealthy gait that his comrade Bumblebee was approaching him from behind. Those were the footsteps of a soldier who was seasoned to roaming with the aim of remaining undetected. But after living in the same vicinity as Bumblebee and company for a good long while now, they all knew each other's idiosyncrasies all too well.

"Well," Hound said, smoke from his cigar billowing from his mouth, "if it isn't everyone's favorite insect. Join me, why don't you."

Bumblebee seemed to ignore the soubriquet and obeyed silently, sitting next to Hound on the edge of the platform overlooking the junk yard. The sun continued to rapidly descend, casting a dim, rosy hue on the landscape.

They sat side by side for a moment, neither speaking. Hound had assumed that Bumblebee came along for some reason, to say or ask something specific. But clearly, he had no intention of talking. Hound got to wondering to what he owed the company.

"Anything on your mind, scout?" he asked after a moment, still looking ahead at the celestial spectacle.

From Hound's peripheral, he could see Bumblebee shake his head. His antennae were down, bespeaking his fatigued body language. Nobody was used to the sight of Bumblebee looking tired. It was amazing how much endless energy and drive the young soldier had. Crosshairs was always wired himself, but displayed an emotional weariness by the increasing vitriol in his haughty rhetoric. Drift's sporadic anger was periodically squelched by his bizarre meditation rituals. But Bumblebee was even-tempered, patient. That may have explained why the youngest and least-experienced among them somehow ended up with the mantel of leader, much as Crosshairs and Drift would protest. Hound himself never expected to answer to a compatriot so much his junior, but he was much more aware of his personal limitations. Besides, Optimus clearly invested endless trust in his young scout, much more than Hound had personally ever hitherto seen him invest in any other subordinate since the war broke out. And if Optimus saw something in him, then there had to be a good reason.

"You know something, kid," Hound started as he mulled over all of this, "We've come a long way with this big old conflict. Now we're coming face-to-face with our own origins. Things much bigger than ourselves or this war, shit that's more ancient than me."

Bumblebee looked sideways at Hound, indicating with his facial expression that he wasn't sure where the green Autobot was headed with these observations.

Hound, perceiving this, explained, turning to Bumblebee and jabbing a finger into his chest. " _You_ sure you're ready for that?"

Bumblebee's eyes inquisitively narrowed. He edited a string of words together with his radio; _"what do you mean?"_

Unexpectedly, Hound chuckled and went back to puffing on his cigar. "Ah, I don't know. Of course you're ready. I guess we all are. We don't have a choice, after all."

There was a pause. Hound hazarded a glance at his cohort, and saw that Bumblebee was still looking at him, clearly incredulous.

"Optimus is up there," Houns suddenly said, looking up in the general direction of the sky, leaving the specifics open for interpretation. "And here we are, cronies in this big, scary agenda, underneath _him_ , fighting for things that most of us probably don't really understand. This war got bigger than any of us ever though it would. And we're still all little guys down here—well, in a manner of speaking. And the little guys need a leader."

Bumblebee remained unusually unresponsive, only blinking at Hound.

Finally, the bigger Autobot came out with it, jabbing a burly finger into Bumblebee's chest once again, "That's _you,"_ he exclaimed.

Bumblebee shook his head. _"I'm not Optimus—"_

"No," Hound interrupted. "You're not Optimus Prime. And Crosshairs was right, you never will be. But leaders never—or _should_ never—strive to be their predecessors. That don't make no sense." Hound took an unusually violent drag on the cigar. "Was Optimus trying to be Sentinel? Zeta? No. He was only ever Optimus. Ah, either way. Optimus is drafted into the big leagues. Now we're all down to the wire."

Bumblebee hummed something incomprehensible, sounding contemplative.

"You're the toughest little son of a bitch I've seen in my entire life," Hound suddenly remarked, strangely not in conjunction with his last thought. "And that's saying something."

Bumblebee didn't know what to say. He didn't feel as exonerated as it seemed he should. He knew that Hound meant good by the statement, but he couldn't help but suspect that there were unsettling implications in it. Over time, as he outlived more and more of his friends, it became increasingly clear that he was being pushed into a position for himself that he failed to foresee. And Hound was right, Optimus Prime—his mentor and idol—was investing an immense amount of trust in him.

"It doesn't matter if I'm ready," Bumblebee said suddenly, in his real voice, which was quiet and strained.

That caught Hound's attention.

"Whatever is needed to end this war—if I live, I'll do whatever it takes. I expect all of us here feel the same way."

Hound watched Bumblebee carefully. The yellow scout's jaw moved stiffly, and his eyes narrowed and shifted as he talked, like it was difficult for him to understand form his own words, which came out slowly and methodically. There was obvious strain and static lacing the inflection.

Hound let the commentary about war hang in the air. He asked of Bumblebee's voice, "Does that hurt?"

"Every word."

Hound hummed in melancholy acknowledgement and looked forward. He hadn't known Bumblebee at the time that the scout lost his voice at the hands of Megatron, but every Autobot had heard about it through the grape vine regardless of personal proximity. It had been big news, mainly because it was in conjunction with the launch of the Allspark, which many considered the "turning point" of the war. The wizened green Autobot recalled that era with startling vividness—the Allspark was gone, out of Decepticon hands for good, and some young scout had been responsible for staving off Megatron, the biggest threat that Cybertron had seen to the perpetuation of the Transformers in recent history. A little guy, they all said in the ranks, a kid no less. And not only had he succeeded in his periless mission, but he survived to tell the tale. If there had been anybody who hadn't heard of Bumblebee up to that moment, then no such person remained after Tyger Pax. The young scout became something of a celebrity—despite having clearly lost something for it.

There was something symbolic in the voicelessness with which Bumblebee would have to grapple ever since. A permanent reminder of not just that singular encounter, but the sacrifices war obliges its victims to make. In a sense, every being involved in the conflict was robbed of their voice. Individuality was steadily sacrificed in the conglomerate effort of every man to survive and work toward a common, seemingly unattainable goal.

"You're leadership material," Hound said quietly after a while. "You know what's funny—it's hard to remember that you're just a kid sometimes—"

"I'm no kid," Bumblebee interrupted, straining progressively more to speak. "There are no kids or adults in this war. No men or women. Only soldiers."

"Yeah, you're right." Hound threw down his cigar, and then leapt off the platform to crush it underfoot. Bumblebee remained seated, feeling the level shift with the massive decrease in weight. From his position on the ground, Hound looked back up at him. "I'm an old bot," he said. There was a tinge of some foreign emotion in his voice, perhaps sadness, or resignation. "I've seen a lot of shit in my day. I saw Optimus rise up and become the Autobot that he is now. I've seen a lot of friends die and a lot more change, for better or for worse."

Bumblebee said nothing, but stared, transfixed. He mindlessly kicked his legs as they dangled off the platform, betraying his youth.

"I know a leader when I see one," Hound continued. "and he's got one hell of a mission coming up."

Hound started to walk away with that, but heard Bumblebee say quietly as he departed;

"I'm not afraid."

This caused Hound to pause. He turned to look at his young comrade. "Sure you're not," he said, and Bumblebee couldn't for the life of him read the level of facetiousness in that response. "But with you at the helm—" he winked at Bumblebee—"I sure am."

With that, he walked away and turned a corner, out of sight. Bumblebee remained on the platform, now in the dim lighting of nighttime as the sun had gone almost completely down. He took a meaningful look around at the environment, wondering briefly how he managed to live long enough to see it. Then, shortly afterward, he leapt down from his perch, and coughed into his fist, his voice spent and in pain.

Hound's observations rang loudly in his mind as he walked aimlessly toward no particular destination. He wasn't sure that he agreed he was leadership material after all, but he knew that it didn't matter—he had Optimus's trust, Cade's trust, and in some form, the trust of his team there on Earth. Never had he foreseen himself leading anybody—but war was unpredictable, after all.

He chanced a glance at the sky, polluted by distant urban lights and smog. He envied the stars, far away and detached. He felt that Optimus, fighting for his race, was looking down from the exosphere, expecting more of Bumblebee than what he had to offer.

But it didn't matter, after all. The young scout learned long ago not to resist the inevitable determinism of time's arrow. He learned long ago that war is nothing more than continuing one day at a time, and there was nothing more to it.


End file.
